


The Little Match Boy

by Harrenwolf



Series: Twice Upon a Time [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, How Do I Tag, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harrenwolf/pseuds/Harrenwolf
Summary: "And as he laughed and laughed, the matches burned, burned, burned."





	The Little Match Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory warning: I am a STEM student and write like one. Please ignore any signs of poor writing you notice, or better yet, let me know so I can improve in the future.

It was so terribly cold. Large snowflakes were drifting from the sky, the first snowfall of the year. In the dusk, a young boy was walking through the streets, bareheaded and barefoot. Though he had left home with his boots on, he had lost them fleeing from a pale man with red eyes who had chased him across a river. His hat he had dropped, and was immediately whisked away by a solemn blond boy who quickly ran away. Even his scarf was gone, taken by a short blond man who claimed the pink colour would suit him far more than it suited the boy. And so the boy shuffled on, his feet turning pale, and blue, and red. In his frozen hands he clutched several packs of matches, which he was to sell. But no one had bought a single match from him, and he had not a single kopek.

Shivering in the biting wind, the boy crept along the streets. Snowflakes dotted his silver blond hair, and frost coated the long lashes that framed his violet eyes. In all the windows there was warmth and fires, for there had been a plentiful harvest. Alas, he had no home to return to, for a blond Frenchman had forced him and his siblings out, and even if he dared return, his sisters would still have no food to eat and no place to sleep. And so he folded stiff legs underneath himself and sat in a corner between two houses out of the wind.

Fearing that his hands would freeze solid, he took one match and struck it. Ch-tch! What a wonderful sight! The flame burned bright like a candle as he carefully held a hand over it. With the fire’s warmth flooding over him, it almost felt as if the boy was indeed sitting before a great fireplace surrounded by beautiful ornate golden carvings like he used to. He stretched his feet out before him to be closer to the glowing heat, but the fire went out, and there was nothing but a burnt match in his hand.

He struck another match. This time, a long table appeared in front of him, with a splendid feast all set out on the snow-white tablecloth. There was chicken, and quail, and pheasant, all shining and steaming. Even more miraculously, the roasted suckling pig that lay at the centre of the table rose and pranced towards the boy, knife still sticking out of it. He stretched his hands towards it, but just before it reached him, it vanished, and there was nothing but a burnt match in his hand.

Hurriedly, he lit another match. A splendid row of white horses appeared before him, a sharply dressed soldier astride each one. The soldiers stared attentively at the boy, clutching their weapons and awaiting his signal. The nearest horse snorted and tossed its head eagerly, the metallic decorations on its cheekpieces glinting in the dim light. But they, too, vanished and there was nothing but a burnt match in his hand. 

He rubbed another match against the wall. It glowed warm again, and this time, he saw an old man, gray and haggard but standing strong in the orange glow. “Help me, General Winter!” the boy cried out. “I have no warm fireplace or splendid feast or strong army. I beg you, do not leave me!”

The old man smiled, grim and frosty. “When your flames disappear, so will warmth and food and men. But I promise you, child, that I will not leave.”

The boy looked into his burning match, into its flickering golden depths. He struck the rest of the box of matches as he returned the old man’s smile, then another box and another until they were all lit. Standing on frozen feet, he laughed as he flung his arms wide. The boy embraced the old man tightly, and it was terribly cold and painful but it did not matter when the world was so light and beautiful. The matches burned with a glow brighter than daylight, surrounding him, painting the whole city in red and gold. As he laughed, the matches burned, burned, burned. And when morning came, there was nothing but a bundle of burnt matches in his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> In 1812, Napoleon's army invaded Russia with one of the largest forces the world had yet seen. After multiple battles, the Russians continuously retreated, leaving Napoleon free to march into Moscow. But the Russians had prepared flammable materials and dismantled fire engines, and soon after the French had taken control, the fires destroyed the vast majority of the great city and the supplies it held. Russia burnt his own heart, and it worked. Left without supplies and facing the onslaught of winter, the French retreated. After hypothermia, starvation, and the pursuing Russians, at best 1/10 of the original army survived their trip back to France.
> 
> Does this work even make sense lol I'm too tired to tell please comment and let me know


End file.
